The cryptic words had been painted on a white fence when I arrived for my first trip to Ireland, for no less a momentous occasion than one of the O'Sullivan clan's nuptials. The trip provided an excuse to finally tour the Emerald Isle, and so en route to the wedding I drove along the coast of the Dingle Peninsula, a windswept landmass of green meadows dotted with sheep and rocky hills that thrusts like an arrowhead into the North Atlantic Ocean. Here in County Kerry lies the eponymous hub of the region, a fishing village known as a friendly tourist venue and center of traditional Celtic music.

Walking down Dingle's stone-paved sidewalk with a gentleman from San Francisco, we passed our first sign of intrigue - a sign that perhaps, Dorothy, we are not in Kansas anymore. In a stiff winter wind from the Atlantic, an old-fashioned painted signboard swung over the heads of passers-by: "Foxy John's Bar, Hardware, Bicycles."

For most men, the only thing missing from an invitation like that would be the promise of barmaids wearing nothing but tool belts. Naturally, my friend wanted to investigate, so we quickly scrapped our plans for an intellectual exploration of the region's ecosystem, and following the siren song of Harps and hammers, we made a sharp right turn into the establishment.

Lo and behold, no false advertising here. On one side of the dusty room lay racks stocked with hardware, and on the other was a bar with a few beer taps; of course we had to have a pint to celebrate this serendipitous discovery. A handful of tradesmen stood around talking shop, drinking and watching a rugby game on TV. I was the conspicuous lone female among them.

Now fortified against the December frost, we continued strolling through town until we came upon a shoe repair shop named Dick Mack's. Not yet having walked the soles off our boots, we would not have paid heed to the inconspicuous storefront, except for the very loud wail of Irish music seeping through every crack. We looked at each other and decided to investigate the shoe repair shop with a live band.

We opened the door and found ourselves full in the middle of the room, the eyes of the crowd staring quizzically at the interlopers who stood frozen in the doorway. The cramped space looked like the movie set of a 19th century cobbler's shop, the wooden shelves adorned with leather goods, and like Foxy John's, on one side of the small room was a bar. Somehow, there were about 70 people inside, listening to the music - banjos, fiddles, recorders, drums - with seemingly someone new whipping out an instrument every few seconds. I felt like a complete arse, but there was nothing to be done now except wade through the throng and look for a hole to drop into.

Fortunately, though, within 15 minutes some of the patrons introduced themselves; one bearded gentleman who appeared to be in his 50s, Vin Pender, even invited us to his birthday party that evening. I ordered a Guinness at the bar, and then discovered the "snug," a secluded curtained corner where the womenfolk used to hide and drink during the era when they were banned from pubs.

It was when we left that I paused to read the sign on the fence informing us that Dick Mack's was across the street from the church and vice versa; something about the assuredness of this position, that this shoe repair pub saw itself on equal footing with St. Mary's Church, made me smile. Here it was, the sacred and the profane, across the street from each another.

Vin had asked the reason for my visit to Ireland and I told him I was there for the O'Sullivan nuptials.

"Well, I hope your friend's wedding fares better than the one that was across the street. It only lasted half an hour," he said. "This American woman married an Irishman and they got into a fight on the way to the reception and she went straight to the airport and caught a plane back to the States."

It turns out that just might be the reason Dick Mack's is across the street from the church - just in case you need it. Within a few feet you can find assorted repairs for your sole and your soul.